Jack
by Fortitudine
Summary: Two young boys aren't the only ones left behind when their families are murdered.


**Jack**

_... strength without insolence, courage without ferocity; all the virtues of man without his vices._ ~ (Byron)

There were voices but they seemed to come from a long way off.

_He's dead, too._

_He ain't! He can't be! Jack? Wake up, Jack!_

_Lookit the blood, Jed. I'm sorry…I'm sorry! But we got to get going, now. They might be comin' back!_

He heard the soft rustle of bare feet in the dusty dooryard as the boy was pulled away, crying. He tried to raise his head but it was so heavy, all of a sudden. He couldn't move. His eyelids closed against the bright sun and everything slipped back into darkness.

He didn't know how long it was before he roused again, but the heat beating down on him made him guess that the day was halfway gone. He got to his feet, every move jarring his head and sending waves of agony down over his shoulder and back, and began looking. Nausea overtook him after a few steps and he retched up bile and the breakfast he'd eaten before the morning exploded in gunfire and screams.

Smoke tugged at his nostrils, sending him into a sneezing fit, and each paroxysm shook his wounded body. He cried out in pain but no one came for him. It was quiet as midnight, without the usual noises of livestock and poultry moving around the yard, or the comforting sound of the women in the kitchen going about their business. Nothing looked the same, the barn and the house and the outbuildings reduced to heaps of charred wood.

The horses were gone, along with the pigs and all the chickens. One of the milk cows was on her side near the collapsed corral fence, dried blood crusting around the hole in her forehead. From a tree branch, the barn cat swung suspended by the neck like some obscene toy, her body riddled with holes and her kittens broken and scattered on the ground beneath her.

Two bundles of clothing lay in the dirt several yards apart and he approached warily, frightened but desperate for a sign that something still lived amidst the wreckage. When the bundles did not move at his touch he left them and went on, seeking some trace of the boy.

He found it by the well. It was soaked with water and smeared with mud, but it was the boy's, he could tell. He picked it up and began to wander around the yard, keening deep in his throat. They had counted on him – he was supposed to stay with the boy and protect him, no matter what, and he'd failed.

All that afternoon he waited patiently for someone to return, but after the long shadows began to darken the yard he knew he was alone. He had to go after the boy, but where? His head hurt, terribly, and there was no one to tell him what to do. He sat down next to what had been the porch to puzzle it out.

And it dawned on him, finally, through the dizziness and the ache in his head. The town. That's where the boy was, had to be. He was thirsty and hungry and his shoulder was stiff, but he got to his feet and began to stagger towards the road.

Although he pushed himself as hard as he was able, the pain slowed him and dawn had broken before he came to the outskirts. There were one or two people out at that hour, and they stared and pointed. One made a grab for him but he dodged and kept going.

A noose sailed out of nowhere and settled around his neck, scraping the raw places. He fought back, struggling as he was dragged towards the stranger, but it tightened on his throat until he couldn't breathe and finally collapsed at the man's feet. He was half-pulled, half-carried into the cool darkness of a shed and dropped onto to a burlap sack. The man loosened the rope and snapped a chain in its place, fastening it securely to a ringbolt set in the wall. Another man appeared with a pail half-full of water. He knew he should try to run but he was so thirsty – he stood up and buried his face in the bucket, drinking greedily.

_Nice lookin' animal. I seen him before, think he b'longed to one of them families that was burned out yestiddy._

_Figger those raiders shot him?_

_Shot or clubbed, the bastards. _The man's voice was kind and his hand was gentle. _Poor ol' fella. You done lost your folks, ain't you? _

He raised his head and whimpered. He needed to find the boy, right now. Didn't they understand?

_What's he got there?_

_Looks like a kid's hat. What's left of it._

_Well, it's all tore up now, may as well let him keep it. _

He sighed, heavily. He couldn't do anything while he was chained up, but sooner or later he'd get his chance. He settled into the gunnysack and laid his muzzle down across the battered little cap.

* * *

><p><em>There is sorrow enough in the natural way <em>

_From men and women to fill our day; _

_And when we are certain of sorrow in store, _

_Why do we always arrange for more? _

_Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware _

_Of giving your heart to a dog to tear._

_Buy a pup and your money will buy _

_Love unflinching that cannot lie- _

_Perfect passion and worship fed _

_By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head._

_Nevertheless it is hardly fair _

_To risk your heart for a dog to tear._

_When the fourteen years which Nature permits _

_Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits, _

_And the vet's unspoken prescription runs _

_To lethal chambers or loaded guns, _

_Then you will find-it's your own affair- _

_But...you've given your heart for a dog to tear. _

_When the body that lived at your single will, _

_With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!); _

_When the spirit that answered your every mood _

_Is gone-wherever it goes-for good, _

_You will discover how much you care, _

_And will give your heart for the dog to tear._

_We've sorrow enough in the natural way, _

_When it comes to burying Christian clay. _

_Our loves are not given, but only lent, _

_At compound interest of cent per cent. _

_Though it is not always the case, I believe, _

_That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve: _

_For, when debts are payable, right or wrong, _

_A short-time loan is as bad as a long- _

_So why in Heaven (before we are there) _

_Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear_? ~ (Rudyard Kipling).


End file.
